


Of Our Own Device

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Possession, Anti-Possession Tattoos, Demonic Possession, Episode: s09e02 Devil May Care, Gen, Guilty Dean, Guilty Dean Winchester, Possession, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She runs the nails of her right hand over his tattoo. Dean’s skin starts burning, blistering in hot painful bubbles, and Abaddon leans forward, grins. “You’re the perfect vessel, Dean,” she says. (AU for 9x02 'Devil May Care'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Our Own Device

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from a Tumblr meme: Abaddon + smile. I wrote this a while ago but only posted it on Tumblr and then re-read it today and decided I liked it enough to put it up here!

Abaddon has Dean tight in her grasp, red-tipped fingers twisted in the collar of his jacket. Her teeth flash white and in a bright sharp tone she laughs, “So pretty. Look at your eyelashes. Women have killed for less.” Dean scowls, juts his jaw, but she doesn’t step back. Instead, she tugs hard at his shirt, popping open the top buttons to reveal his chest. She runs the nails of her right hand over his tattoo. Dean’s skin starts burning, blistering in hot painful bubbles, and Abaddon leans forward, grins. “You’re the perfect vessel, Dean,” she says.

Dean begins to protest, but while he’s finding the words her mouth gapes open and up from the back of her throat rises a wave of thick black smoke. It floods in a noxious tide out from her mouth and into his, the acrid taste of it stinging tears from his eyes.

The shift lasts only a split second but Dean spends it waiting for Sam. Surely, he’ll pop up any moment now, appear from behind a parked car or a derelict shop, flinging his knife to catch Abaddon between the shoulderblades or gabbling the exorcism that’ll set Dean free. But his brother is nowhere to be found. For all Dean knows, he could have been taken out by Tracy, making a vengeful detour on the way to the car; or he could be collapsed in some corner like a doll, abandoned by the angel who Dean’s counting on to keep him alive.

For whatever reason, then, Sam doesn’t come; and Dean’s scarcely got time to realise what’s happened before he’s slammed up hard against the back of his own skull. He scrapes and pummels and yells but it does no good: Abaddon’s seized the reins. He watches in horror through his own green eyes as she stands and stalks away from her abandoned meatsuit, leaving it sprawled lifeless on the dirt. She catches her reflection in a shop window and poses, flexing her muscles, curling her lip. Dean watches his distorted face, fighting to overcome to the panic that's building within.

“Not bad,” Abaddon murmurs; then her head whips round at the sound of approaching footsteps. It’s Tracy, breathing hard, laden with weapons. Bottles of holy water clank at her side. Several salt guns hang from her back.

Of course, she doesn’t use any of them, glancing rapidly between Dean and the body behind him. Dean feels his mouth pulling into a smile. “Ganked the bitch,” he says; and Tracy visibly relaxes. Inside, Dean’s howling, thrashing like a landed fish; but he’s helpless as Abaddon raises his arm, twists his wrist in a sickly familiar gesture and snaps Tracy’s neck with a sharp dry sound. She slumps and Dean’s heart is pounding - but it isn’t, it’s steady and his veins are plump with Abaddon’s pleasure and delight.

“Sammy!” Abaddon calls.

Dean’s stomach would drop, if he had a stomach of his own to do it, if his body wasn’t being commandeered wholesale by this foreign, malevolent force. Abaddon is feeling smug. She’s revelling in her triumph, relishing the sensation of having him trapped, pinned and squirming at the back of his brain. She’d kill Sam in a second, and make him watch.

And then, oh Jesus, here comes his brother, loping long-legged and gangly from out of a nearby building. Sam looks dishevelled, his jacket askew; he’s been fighting hard. Abaddon tenses her muscles, flexes her fingers ready to strike.

But as soon as Sam’s eyes catch sight of Dean, something happens to his face; the features slip out of Sam’s soft lines and harden into something unfamiliar. His eyes glow blue. “You are not Dean Winchester,” he says, stiff and formal. Of course. This is Zeke.

Inside Dean’s mind, Abaddon reels in shock.

Sam raises his hand, splays his fingers and a bright blue light floods out across the street. Dean falls blinded to the floor. His head is pounding, thudding like it did after those first, terrifying encounters before Cas learned to tone the whole ‘angel’ thing down. He scrabbles for a grip and it’s minutes before he realises that Abaddon has left the building; that she’s smoked out, angry or scared or both and that she’s taken her original body with her. It’s just Dean in here, again.

He blinks, vision starry and unclear, and when his sight comes back it’s to see Sam standing over him, forehead furrowed in obvious concern.

“Sam?” he says. It is, this time; Zeke must have vanished at the same time as the demon, slithered back under whichever of Sam’s mental rocks he’s chosen for sanctuary.

“Dean,” Sam says. “I don’t - do you know what happened?”

Dean reviews his options. “She got away,” he says. “I had her for a minute, but…”

“Right,” says Sam. Dean sees him cast a shifty glance around, shake his head minutely, shut his mouth. That’s Sam. Keep it quiet, don’t complain. Move on. Don’t let Dean down.

Sam’s eyes swing back towards him and his mouth drops open, horror-stricken, as he notices Dean’s burnt-off tattoo. “Oh my God, Dean,” he says. “She didn’t - I mean - did she possess you? Did you throw her off?”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn’t know what to say.

Sam drops to his knees. His hand lands big and solid and heavy between Dean’s shoulder blades. “Man,” he says. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, Dean. It’s… possession is…” he shivers. “Look, it’s going to be OK. You did so well.”

Dean looks away.

“You might not want to talk about it, right now,” Sam says. “But if… later. You know. I understand.”

Dean looks back. “Sam,” he begins.

Sam’s eyes glow blue.


End file.
